


swirling colors

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Week [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Starklings' soulmates shall be revealed as the story advances), (au in which Catelyn loves Jon - as her own son), (because i say so), (for the JonSa because they start as babes), (i just love this what-if ok? so i went with it), (this was supposed to be a twoshot i am so sorry), (yet she's super conflicted about it), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Starks, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Starks, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Slow Burn, Stark family feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-25 22:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12542500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: Jon is quieter—always quieter and more reserved in his affections—he doesn’t crowd Sansa, but neither does he keep his distance. He lets Robb call her name, and strokes her cheek gently, and then her hair in wonder – Catelyn smiles because the boy is always in wonder of her own hair, even Robb’s at first.“No, my Lord, I will not hate him – I will not condemn him for the sins of his father.”Or in which Catelyn chooses to love Jon Snow as her own, and things unravel from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for [Jonsa Week](http://jonsa-week.tumblr.com/). day 1, oct 22th - soulmates.
> 
> and this prompt:
> 
> soulmate au where everybody is born with heterochromia—your right eye is your own natural color but your left is the color of your soulmate’s. and it’s only once you meet and recognize your own eye staring back at you that your eyes change to match.

Everything changes when Sansa is born.

 

The identity of Jon Snow’s mother becomes known out of necessity then – Ned wishes he could avoid it, wishes he had a different, perhaps _better_ , explanation for what they’ve witnessed. However, he cannot, and there is not, so he mustn’t hold his tongue. Must reveal his most guarded secret—his biggest sacrifice.

 

His honor, after all, means very little when the lives of those he loves are in peril.

 

******

 

Catelyn spends much of the first moons at Winterfell both hating herself and hating her lord husband. But never the babe.

 

Never Jon Snow.

 

 _A babe_ , she thinks, as she informs the nursemaid that she would take care of feeding her lord husband’s bastard. _An innocent babe_ , she insists, as she watches him play with her trueborn son – watches him grow besides her Robb.

 

Younger by a handful of moons, she’d been told; she clings to that thought, tucks it safely within her mind. Takes it out to remember it when uncertainty fills her—her one reassurance amidst the despair that sometimes threatens to overwhelm her.

 

Catelyn spends those first moons hating—herself for this perceived failure on her part, and her lord husband for the betrayal—or trying. _Trying_ because, in the end, she cannot accomplish that.

 

Because every time she stares into the looking glass, every time she sees a pair of equally blue eyes staring back—remembers the moment she looked into the mismatched eyes of her soon-to-be husband and felt the rush of warm as she recognized her _own_. Every time, she’s reminded that Eddard Stark is her soulmate, that it will be physically impossible to bear him ill will.

 

Every time she looks at Jon Snow, she’s reminded that her soulmate sought another’s bed after their marriage – she is witness to the very proof there is that the Maesters of the Citadel are wrong. That what they preach is a lie.

 

Soulmates wedded and bedded cannot betray their vows to one another because they will _never_ desire nor love another.

 

 _Lies_. Lies, lies, lies.

 

 _My husband did_ , she wants to scream, every time she’s told how lucky she is to have wedded her soulmate, _the honorable Eddard Stark betrayed his vows_.

 

So she tries and tries and _tries_ to hate him, but fails and the pain left in her ire’s wake is all-encompassing.

 

*****

 

And one night, after she’s lulled both babes to sleep, as she looks upon their innocent and peaceful faces – one night, after a year’s passed and she’s decided to be the best mother and wife she can be, her lord husband asks:

 

“You will not hate the boy?”

 

Because, all around Westeros, the Ladies who have to live with their Lords’ shame resolve to hate the little bastards. As it is their _right_ , as it is their desire. Hate and, if rumors prove to be true, get _rid of them_ as it is the case of Cersei Lannister.

 

_(And sometimes, Catelyn wants to—really wants to hate Jon Snow so much, but she will not. She cannot.)_

 

Her lord husband asks and she answers – after threading her fingers through brown locks, after repeating the motion over red locks. After dropping a kiss to each tiny forehead, she straightens up, turns, and says:

 

“No, my Lord, I will not hate him – I will not condemn him for the sins of his father.”

 

It is the boldest thing she’s ever said to him; certainly the harshest. But it rankles that he would think her capable of hating an innocent babe. Family. Duty. Honor. Her House’s words. Family always comes first – even if Jon Snow had not come from her womb, he is still family.

 

“I will love him, my Lord,” she says, still bold, fierce, “I will love him as if he were my own.”

 

 _I will raise him alongside our trueborn son. He will want for nothing, this motherless child_ , Catelyn thinks fervently, she vows. _I will love him, and if the Gods are merciful—if the Gods are good he will be our son’s biggest ally. Our son’s greatest protector, his most loyal_.

 

Her lord husband blinks, then nods slowly; he takes a deep breath, as if to talk—and he’s been doing that plenty as of late—his grey eyes fall on the babes, then sighs. He says nothing for a long time, then simply asks if she might allow him to escort her to her chambers, and softer still, asks if he might call upon her that night.

 

*****

 

Later, she thinks—as she lies on her bed, eyes wide in a sort of wonder she believes might never leave, catching her breath as she stares at this man that never ceases to surprise her. She thinks, perhaps, she ought to ask him to give the boy a true name. Make Jon a Stark. She thinks she ought to; Catelyn knows living as a Snow will be hard on him, once he’s old enough to understand what it means.

 

 _Spare him the pain_ , she wants to say, as she looks upon her lord husband’s profile, _spare him the shame_. Catelyn thinks she should ask – decides she will.

 

She doesn’t.

 

And then Sansa—her sweet and beautiful daughter—comes along.

 

*****

 

Jon Snow’s eyes remain blissfully mismatched for two whole years.

 

His right eye colored the very same grey of Ned’s – a dichotomy of warmth and cold; his left eye, however – a deep blue so very reminiscent of her _own_. Of her Robb.

 

She remembers clutching at her son, cradling him against her breast the day she arrived at Winterfell; amidst the heartbreak and her righteous rage, she remembers feeling dread at the very possibility of the _bastard_ being—

 

Ned had taken one look at her, at their son, then at the babe in his arms – realization dawning rapidly.

 

—her son’s soulmate.

 

 _The Gods would be this cruel_ , she’d thought, _to punish an innocent babe for the sins of his father?_

 

Back then, the babe in question had been Robb. And for a solid second, Catelyn is sure, she managed to hate Eddard Stark completely when he’d suggested she let Robb meet Jon Snow. One solid second.

 

Until she’d _remembered_ —her son’s left eye is not grey.

 

The boys, so close in age—but her son is the _oldest_ , he is, he is the _first_ _born_ —had been so curious about each other, squirming in the arms that held them in their attempts to reach the other. Babbling as their tiny hands had tried to grab.

 

“They will be fine brothers, closer than most.”

 

At the time those words had been uttered, Catelyn had said nothing—could not muster the energy to _do_ anything. Now, it brings a shameful sort of relief, _still_. Close, the boys are close and they will grow closer still – thick as thieves. She rejoices in the knowledge.

 

Tries to push the petty little voice reminding her she does what she does for _her son_ , to protect her son, and not out of real affection for Jon Snow.

 

 _A lie_ , she retorts, rebels against this notion, _a lie_.

 

A lie that used to be a truth. A lie that that still shines through her actions sometimes; shined through often in the beginning.

 

_I love him now, I do._

 

That is _the_ truth, absolutely; she knows this much now, in the aftermath of delivering her second child. A beautiful girl. She knows this for certain, as Ned enters her chambers after she’s been cleaned and dressed and her baby girl is settled peacefully in her arms, escorting the boys and telling them that they should speak softly lest they startle their sister.

 

Knows it in her very bones as she watches the boys bound into the room, struggling to keep quiet, but brimming with excitement and endless energy. Robb, her first born, whose belly laughs and exuberant countenance and unadulterated happiness never fails to bring smiles to Winterfell’s residents. And Jon, the motherless boy she’s come to love dearly in the spam of nearly two years, whose shy smiles and quiet demeanor and steadfast devotion to his family never ceases to amaze.

 

They both stop by her bedside and start bouncing on the spot as they wait for their Father to catch up with them. Ned sits next to her, at the edge of her bed, leans over to look at their daughter and suddenly Catelyn feels as if her life is perfect.

 

Everything she holds dear is within these walls and nothing could make her _happier_.

 

“Can we meet her now, Papa?” Robb seems to have reached the end of his patience; he leans over the edge of the bed as much as he can, tries to catch a glimpse of the babe’s face.

 

Jon looks at her – eyes beseeching her. “Does she look like me or Robb, Mother?”

 

Robb braces his hands on the bed and jumps as high as he can, his little face beaming at her as he catches a glimpse of her sister. “She looks like me!”

 

His contagious grin manages to turn Jon’s frown upside-down in no time, and then Catelyn shifts her daughter in her arms, with great care, so the boys can look without the risk of startling their sister. The little one has yet to open her eyes properly – she is impatient to know whether her daughter will take after her appearance fully.

 

“She’s prettier than you,” says Jon, sticking out his tongue at his brother, and turns his mismatched eyes once more on her. “Does she have a name?”

 

Catelyn shakes her head, turns to look at Ned—she has to push away the urge to say he should name their daughter as she named their _son_ while he was away fighting in Robert’s Rebellion. The mention would bring unnecessary attention from their ever-curious boys, who have developed surprisingly good observation skills to be only three; the use of singular would be noticed immediately.

 

Jon more so than Robb. The question will come, regardless, and she does not wish to explain now—they’re much too young to _understand_.

 

“What shall we name her, my Lord?”

 

Ned smiles, stroking their daughter’s chubby cheek; the little one flutters her eyes but doesn’t really open them and the boys move closer, trying to catch the colors of her eyes.

 

“Sansa,” says Ned, “Sansa Stark, a good northern name.”

 

 _A beautiful name_ , she thinks, and then finally relents and tells the boys they can come closer. Which, they do so right away, scrambling to get onto the bed. Both are positively vibrating with suppressed energy – still mindful of their sister.

 

Robb—louder and buoyant in his affections—moves as close to Sansa as he possibly can without falling on top of his baby sister. With a delighted grin on his face, inching closer and closer until their noses are touching, he calls her name softly.

 

Jon is quieter—always quieter and more reserved in his affections—he doesn’t crowd Sansa, but neither does he keep his distance. He lets Robb call her name, and strokes her cheek gently, and then her hair in wonder – Catelyn smiles because the boy is always in wonder of her own hair, even Robb’s at first.

 

_(And that first had been both terrifying and amusing; Jon had grabbed a handful of it and pulled and Robb had cried and retaliated in the same way. Both had cried and cried and refused to let go of each other’s hair until they simply did and sprawled onto the rugs in front of the fire, grabbing a handful of the other’s clothes and falling asleep.)_

 

When Jon takes her little hand, Robb gasps excitedly and lets out a short laugh, drawing their attention, he exclaims happily that Sansa is opening her eyes, but it is hard to tell with his head still obscuring the baby’s face. Jon inches closer, anxious to see; Ned wraps an arm around her shoulder, presses a kiss to her brow and Catelyn is sure she will burst into tears—she’s so happy.

 

Then—

 

“Ooh! Her eyes are like Jon’s!”

 

—it all _shatters_.

 

*****

 

Catelyn feels a foreboding chill settle in her bones, tries to keep her expression from cracking; feels her husband freeze next to her, for a moment not even breathing.

 

Robb moves back, grinning widely; they cannot smile back.

 

Jon moves closer, smiling brightly; they cannot stop him.

 

Jon moves closer, he stares, he gasps, he jerks back; Sansa gasps, squirms in her Mother’s arms, and coos at them all.

 

And their _eyes_ , their left eyes—

 

*****

 

She remembers gazing into Ned’s eyes that first day, the day they were to be wed. Remembers, past the warmth that had enveloped her, past the rush, past the _happiness_. Catelyn remembers seeing the color in his left eye swirl and slowly blend until it matched his right eye.

 

Remembers feeling the tingling in her own left eye.

 

*****

 

—the colors swirl and blend until they finally reflect their match.

 

******

 

It takes some time to convince the boys to leave so their Mother can rest, so Sansa can rest as well. It takes time and some promises on his part, but he calls for Maester Luwin and they go willingly. Not without questions, on Robb’s part at least— _why did their eyes change, Papa?_ —not without eliciting the surprise of the old man as he takes the boys by the hand, surprise at seeing Jon’s matched eyes.

 

Ned thanks Maester Luwin siltently for not asking what happened, thanks the Gods that the boys are too young to _understand_. Then asks them why they would deliver their punishment like this – why this? _Why?_

 

He drops a kiss on his Catelyn’s cheek, and excuses himself – he needs to think. He needs to try to find an answer. This changes _everything_. He knows he cannot simply hide it—it would be impossible, to contain something like this, no matter how much he wishes it so.

 

Ned sequesters himself in his solar – thinking and planning and going over every single possibility available to him at the moment. The ghosts of his past bellowing out at him, rattling his conscience; the ghosts of his failures draining him of hope, of energy.

 

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

 

Jon’s matching eyes can be easily explained; the boy met his soulmate but it is not a viable match. The reasons can be worked out later, Ned decides, once he has a clear path to follow.

 

_I must protect him; I must protect Sansa. No matter the cost._

 

But _Sansa_ , his newly born daughter. How can he even begin to explain this? Not even a day old, and already with matching eyes.

 

Separating them is the only option, the only thing he can think to do now, and something he has heard of before—it must be possible. Everything else can come later; everything else will come later. They can keep Sansa in Winterfell until it is time to find her a husband; it is not uncommon, after all, for people to marry someone other than their soulmate. Most of the arrangements across the realm are of mismatched couples. Even when finding their soulmates later, duty binds them to their spouse – those who value their duty choose to honor the vows they made to said spouse.

 

Wedded and bedded, only then the compelling need to love and be loved by one’s soulmate would be unstoppable. He ought to know.

 

Truly, he and Catelyn are a very _rare_ occurrence – and only possible after tragedy struck his family _and_ the realm. Remembers Brandon, his Father—Lyanna. No; who’s to say if it’s not another tragedy what will make Jon’s and Sansa’s match _possible_? He cannot allow another bloodshed.

 

Vaguely, he wonders if this will break Catelyn’s affection for Jon; hopes it doesn’t, at the same time, he shamefully hopes it _does_.

 

To make his decision _easier_.

 

With a sigh Ned reaches for a piece of parchment, a quill, and begins to draft what he hopes is a convincing letter. Whether he sends it or not, he’s yet to decide.

 

*****

 

Ned chooses a course of action; he waits to set things in motion.

 

Maester Luwin must be informed of what happened, if only because he requires his help in unearthing any and _all_ information about soulmates. Winterfell’s library is vast, but Ned knows not if there’s much about the subject in its books.

 

In the meantime, he goes about his duties as usual – perhaps he feels more tired by nightfall than he’s accustomed, but the stress gets to him. He watches his sons play and train and go to their lessons; watches his daughter grow every day a little more, become every day a little Lady. He watches his wife.

 

Intently, relentlessly.

 

Nothing is amiss—at first sight.

 

Because he knows that come nightfall, he’ll go by the nursery and find his Catelyn rocking their daughter gently as the babe sleeps, tears staining her cheeks. He knows that come nightfall, he’ll be exhausted enough to consider telling her— _everything_. Unburden them _both_ from this sorrow that has latched onto their lives.

 

He watches her from the threshold, remembers the soft wonder in Jon’s eyes as he gazes upon Sansa and the undivided attention his daughter bestows upon him as well, every time they’re in the same chamber, lets his mind wander— _what if, what if, what if_ —and is so very tempted.

 

“The Gods punish me for my transgressions,” he says, softly but the silence ensures he is heard.

 

“They do not punish _you_ ,” her voice is sharp, she’s only ever spoken to him like that once. “The Gods are cruel, merciless – so they punish our children.”

 

Just the once.

 

_“No, my Lord, I will not hate him – I will not condemn him for the sins of his father.”_

 

He cannot tell if she speaks for all of _three_ children or just the two she’s given him. “Aye, they punish our children.”

 

He debates on telling her about the choice he’s made, the path he’s found – to either soothe her fears or increase her sorrows. His decision was not made lightly; the outcome will hurt no matter Catelyn’s true feelings. He knows it is the _right_ thing to do, tell her.

 

He doesn’t. Ned doesn’t speak and walks away from the nursery and tells himself he’s sparing her further suffering.

 

He is honest enough to admit he fears her reaction.

 

*****

 

Days later, Maester Luwin comes to him with the information he both wanted and not wanted to have confirmed.

 

“Are you absolutely certain?”

 

“Yes, my Lord,” says the man. “Separation is possible, there are records of it – but painful, my Lord, extremely painful for soulmates who bond so early in their lives.”

 

“How painful?”

 

“Enough for there to be written commands to not try it, my Lord.”

 

Ned nods, pinched the bridge of his nose; begins to wonder if he could— _could_ he put his children through such ordeal? Knows he couldn’t, wouldn’t. “You say the bond will grow to be strong, stronger than most, due to their initial age?”

 

“Yes, my Lord. Lady Sansa is newly born, her… attachment to Lord Jon will be absolute; Jon’s only marginally less so, and that’s mainly because he spent some time as an individual without his soulmate, ” Maester Luwin pauses, seemingly unsure if he should proceed, but pushes through nonetheless. “If left on their own, if you try not to separate them, once they reach their maturity…”

 

Ned needs no more; he _knows_ , what would happen then. Not even wedding them to someone else, or sending them away from each other will sever the bond, as it is possible to those who meet their soulmate much later in life. Separating them _then_ – it would be a tragedy.

 

“What would you suggest I do?”

 

“I would not know, Lord Stark. This… there’s no precedent for this. The Gods seldom send soulmates among siblings, even those who only share half the blood. Forgive me, I do not know how to proceed, I cannot help you.”

 

Ned remembers the songs his sister used to enjoy the most. Of true love and knights in shining armor and beautiful princesses and gallant princes. Of soulmates who grow up together and live happily ever after. Then there were the sadder, heartbreaking stories she also favored.

 

_“Did you know, Ned? Some sing about Prince Aemon, The Dragonknight, and Queen Naerys, his sister and soulmate. They say the Gods were punishing them when they made them soulmates, that their love was doomed to never bloom.”_

 

_“The Gods are cruel sometimes, aye, but not so to make soulmates out of brother and sister, Lyanna.”_

 

“Thank you, Maester Luwin, you have been most helpful.”

 

The old man nods respectfully and leaves; once alone, Ned allows himself to slump on his desk – head in his hands.

 

*****

 

Somehow, the days turn into a fortnight, then two – a moon’s turn has passed, and then another, and sooner than expected—where did the time _go_ —Robb’s and Jon’s fourth nameday passes as well.

 

Sansa’s first nameday is set to be within two moons.

 

Ned has yet to speak with Catelyn, has yet to speak with anyone other than Maester Luwin.

 

His household had been told to keep Sansa’s and Jon’s situation silent; they’d asked no questions, and he’d offered no further lies nor explanations. Yet still, he’d made the request for their silence, which they were all too happy to provide.

 

However, with his bannermen set to arrive a fortnight before Sansa’s nameday… His hands are firmly _tied_. They will ask questions – even if he manages to avoid those, their drunken stories are likely to spread faster than wildfire across the North, faster still once the travel bellow the Neck.

 

There’s little else that he can do, no longer a clear path to follow – he goes in search of his wife, knows where he’ll find her. There’s no more reason to postpone spilling his secrets. With measured steps, Ned arrives at the nursery, but only finds the children playing among themselves and a nursemaid watching them.

 

They’re all sitting by the fire. Well, Jon is sitting, cross-legged, while Robb kneels a few spaces away as he makes use of his wooden toys to enact what Ned thinks is a very animated battle. Sansa stands on wobbly legs next to Jon, a small hand clutching his shoulder tightly while she sucks the thumb of the other; she giggles constantly, even with her little thumb in her mouth, her joy is unrestrained.

 

Jon splits his attention evenly, laughing enthusiastically at his brother’s exaggerated reenactment of the story unfolding and smiling gently at Sansa whenever she lets out a delighted giggle. His hands have a steady grip on her, taking care to help her keep her balance whenever she stamps her little feet on the ground in her joy. Which happens often.

 

Ned leans on doorframe to drink in the sight of it.

 

Catelyn had worried that Robb would feel left out; what with the undivided attention Sansa began bestowing on Jon almost instantly. Worried that their son would feel betrayed, considering Jon returned such attention just as much. But it hadn’t been so, it isn’t so. Robb seems to understand what is happening without the advantage of _knowledge_ ; their son does not fight for attention, because it is clear that both Jon and Sansa love him very much and never neglect him when they’re all together.

 

Jon still trains with him, they attend lessons together, play together when Sansa sleeps or whenever they play outside. And Sansa doesn’t shun him, still seeks his arms and presses kisses to his cheek and gives him bright smiles.

 

He’d worried too, until Robb himself put him at ease, but only a short instant:

 

_“It’s alright, Papa, I know Jon and Sansa love me very much, just not like they love each other.”_

 

 _Robb is only a boy_ , he denies still, _he doesn’t understands_.

 

When his attention returns to the present and his children, Ned feels his lips quirk – they’re done with their game, obviously, and now try to make Sansa walk without much assistance.

 

She must learn to walk on her own; Maester Luwin had been insistent on that, reminding them of the boys and how they’d been walking everywhere before their first nameday. Catelyn had frowned but nodded still, Ned himself had had to refrain from talking, knowing Maester Luwin had the right of it.

 

But Sansa is his baby daughter; sweet and loving and gentle. He is tempted to say there is no rush for her to learn, not like the boys, he can carry her around for as long as it takes—but Catelyn is already enthusiastically teaching her and their daughter very much happy to learn, albeit slowly.

 

So now Robb moves a few more steps away from his previous position, a little further from the fire, and reaches out his hands, calling for his sister to go to him. Sansa giggles but doesn’t move, she pulls her thumb from her mouth and with a laugh turns to hug Jon, pushing her face into his neck. Robb is undeterred; he laughs and urges her to his side again.

 

Sansa turns to look at him, pointing a tiny finger, and calls back, “‘Obb!”

 

Jon burst out laughing, as does Robb again, though the later shakes his head and corrects gently, “It’s Robb!”

 

“‘Obb!”

 

Jon shakes trying to suppress his mirth, shifts onto his knees, and gently pries Sansa’s fingers from his tunic; he guides her to stand in front of him, and just as gently commands her attention. “Sansa,” he says, “go to Robb.”

 

The little one pats his cheek. “Jon!”

 

“Yes,” he says, gently – Jon is ever gentle with Sansa; uninterrupted, he’ll grow to be ever loving. “Now go to Robb.”

 

A little nudge and Sansa begins to cross the distance separating her from her brother. Slow, sometimes unsteady, but stubbornly persistent. Behind her, Jon sways on his knees, ready to leap forward at the first sign of a stumble, arms hovering in front of him. Catelyn’s tried to tell him to let Sansa learn how to stand back up if she were to fall, that she needs it—Jon struggles to agree, to comply. He’s always rushing to Sansa’s aid; his sweet daughter, small as she is, seems to understand that, uses it to her advantage.

 

It’s why he’s not surprised that she has no problems to complete her trek to Robb’s side, yet once it’s time to go back to Jon, she stops midway and reaches for him.

 

“Jon!”

 

The nursemaid intercedes before he can move, chiding gently. “You must let her come to you. Lady Sansa needs to learn, Lord Jon.”

 

A slightly different variation of what Catelyn had told him some days ago, under the same circumstances – when Sansa had walked unimpeded into his arms first, then Catelyn’s, and Robb’s. But as soon as Jon stood across her, she stopped halfway to call for him.

 

“Jon!”

 

And just like last time, Jon caves and rushes to catch her as Sansa lurches forward, giggling all the time until she’s secured within the cradle of Jon’s arms. “Sorry,” he says, but ultimately they all know that’s not entirely true; sorry for disobeying, perhaps, but not for responding to Sansa’s call.

 

Never for that.

 

Burning this very image into his mind, Ned retreats and goes back to search for his wife.

 

*****

 

“You were prepared to take this one secret to your grave, were you not, my Lord?”

 

He knows now, knows her well enough to understand – her formality is her attempt at keeping her emotions in check. They sit in her solar; Ned had come to find her in her chambers, caught her just as she’d been about to return to the nursery.

 

“Yes.”

 

She frowns; he waits for her reaction.

 

Before sharing the one secret he’s held from her, he’d promised complete honesty. Despite their rocky start, she believed him and let him speak freely, without interruptions. Catelyn listened attentively, gaze unwavering, as he bared his very soul before her.

 

“The Maesters at the Citadel have it wrong.”

 

“What is it they have wrong, my Lady?”

 

“They say fully bonded soulmates, like you and I, are incapable of deceiving each other, of wanting another, loving another and I thought—” the startled laugh escapes her, shocking and pained, and Ned rushes to her side “—when I saw you with Jon, heard you call him son, I thought… they have it all wrong.”

 

She goes to wipe the few tears that have escaped her, but Ned gets there faster – he knows he’s never been one for grand romantic gestures, painfully awkward when he tries. But he tries and he endeavors to be genuine and thoughtful. So when Ned cups her face and swipes away the falling tears, he’s rewarded with beautiful smile.

 

“They don’t have it wrong.”

 

“They do, just not in the way I expected.”

 

Because he hadn’t lied to her—not really. Jon had been his son from the moment he was placed in his arms, from the moment he made his promise to his sister. He’d loved him as his own then, loves him still now.

 

Catelyn strokes his cheek lightly. “The love you bore your sister was greater than the love you felt for me then.”

 

She doesn’t take offense in this knowledge and he doesn’t correct her – it is the truth. Their love, their trust, their belief, their connection , despite everything, is nearly absolute now. He and Cat might have been fated to one another, but such things still need _time_ to grow; nothing comes instantly, no love, no trust – not even for soulmates. They are still growing into their bond, even now, after nearly five years.

 

“I love you both equally now, only differently.”

 

And Ned, he could laugh, because his own son—a boy of four—told him something very similar not that long ago.

 

“This will change everything,” he says after a while; knows it to be a lie – things changed the very moment Sansa came into this world, the knowledge sits heavy on his shoulders.

 

“Not everything,” and she smiles, gentle and true and, despite the storm that will surely come, something eases in his chest nonetheless.

 

“Aye, not everything.”

 

*****

 

Not everything changes, true—not the most important thing. Not Catelyn’s feelings regarding Jon – the truth eases something in his lady wife but nothing about her and her actions truly change. Not everything, but once his bannermen arrive and he sets to tell them the truth, _well_.

 

The Gods can be as merciful as they can be cruel; he knows this. So, on the eve of the Northern Lords’ arrival, he prays for mercy.

 

In the hour of the Wolf, Eddard Stark kneels before the heart tree and prays for his family.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon thinks it’s because she feels his anxiousness, at everything’s that’s happened—that is happening. Maybe she can sense there’s something wrong, even if she doesn’t understand why, and this is how she copes.

As a boy of six there are few things of which Jon is certain – things he knows with absolute clarity.

 

Robb is his _brother_ , his best friend, his rival; he admires him, would follow him across the Seven Hells – even at such an age, Jon knows this to be true.

 

Arya is his little sister, dearest of _all_ ; he would stop at nothing to ensure her safety, her happiness.

 

Sansa is _Sansa_ ; not a sister, not a sibling, Jon does not feel for her what he feels for Arya and Robb – it’s _more_ , so much more, he’s only a boy and doesn’t know how to explain it— _this_ , what he feels for her, it’s everything. She is his.

 

All of those things he knows; feels them in his very bones.

 

Then there are the things he _knew_.

 

*****

 

Catelyn Stark is his mother; Eddard Stark is his father.

 

This he knows. This, he’s certain.

 

Until King Robert comes to Winterfell.

 

*****

 

Shortly after Arya’s first nameday, Father must travel to Moat Cailin. Looking grim and conflicted, he talks to Mother in hushed tones yet reassures them whenever he and Robb ask if something is wrong – _nothing_ , he says, _everything is alright_.

 

Jon does not believe him; Father looks too worried, Mother looks scared, and he knows the King is to blame.

 

“Maybe the King thinks Father is trying to raise his armies,” says Robb, one day after they’re done with their lessons but cannot go to the training grounds due to the heavy rain falling outside.

 

The moment is reminiscent to a time when there were only _three_ Stark children in the nursery. Only this time is Arya the little one, and unlike the last time, she does not need help walking. She’s been driving her nursemaid crazy with her hurried little steps all about the chamber; so Robb stands and gathers their little sister and brings her to their corner, handing her his toys as Arya has showed no interest in her dolls.

 

Jon remembers the day she was born with a fond smile, remembers looking at the squalling babe in Mother’s arms and beaming at her – because she looks like him. He and Robb have been betting on whether the next babe will have the Tully look or will be all Stark. Jon would not care either way; he’d love the new babe just as much.

 

“Why would the King think that?” Sansa asks looking entirely too shocked.

 

Robb frowns as he sits with Arya placed firmly between his folded legs. “Maybe someone is telling him lies about Father.”

 

Because Father is _not_ raising his armies; he and Robb had been allowed to sit in one of the meetings among the Northern Lords a few moons back and the whole time they’d spoken of fortifying the Neck and several other weak points across the borders of the North. Still, he shares a worried look with his brother – Father’s actions beg the question of why he thinks the borders need to be fortified.

 

_Perhaps that’s why the King comes to Winterfell._

 

Sansa gasps, then frowns; she slides carefully off the chair where she’d been sitting, next to her Septa, and hurries to his side. Much to the consternation of Septa Mordane, if the severe expression on her face is anything to go by—Jon doesn’t understand why she would be unpleased with him, he seldom misbehaves, and when he does, it is never something related to her. And right now, he’s doing nothing of the sort.

 

It doesn’t matter, he thinks and opens his arms to receive Sansa’s enthusiastic embrace. Maybe it is this; Sansa is already so much a perfect lady, polite and proper and so very controlled in her emotions – but she comes to him as the girl of three she still is. As exuberant as Robb in her happiness, giggling and beaming and always, _always_ seeking the cradle of his arms.

 

Jon likes it, so very much; feels at peace when she fits her little head under his chin.

 

Sansa does not giggle now, she burrows into his chest for a moment before pulling back, pouting. “Why would anyone lie to the King? About Papa?”

 

“Some people like to do bad things, sweetling,” he says, smiling gently at her.

 

“But – I thought the South was full of brave knights and beautiful ladies, like in the songs.”

 

Robb frowns at him over her shoulder and he struggles not to answer in kind; Sansa looks so sad to know that there are people who like to do _wrong_ —it’s a new concept to her. He wonders if Father would explain this to her, as he had done so to him and Robb.

 

Life is not a song; he yearns to say it, but won’t – instead Jon leans over to place kiss on her forehead, gives her his best smile, and tells her to bring over her dolls so they can play together.

 

That lifts her spirits quickly enough.

 

Dolls in hand, Sansa walks back to his side, sitting perfectly straight in front of him as she hands him a doll. “Would you be my Knight, Jon?”

 

Her smile is bright and true and Jon ignores Robb’s teasing chuckle as he accepts the toy with a firm nod.

 

“Always.”

 

*****

 

Few things are an absolute certainty in Jon’s life.

 

Until King Roberts is said to be riding North; until Father rides off to meet him at Moat Cailin.

 

Then everything crumbles.

 

*****

 

_Bastard._

 

He hardly remembers who said it. A boy he’s bested in the training grounds, _perhaps_ , most likely. Jon can’t remember; he remembers the shock, at having such a word being thrown at him— _I’m not a bastard_ —remembers Ser Rodrik’s scolding of the boy, Robb’s outrage.

 

Jon remembers the sinking feeling that swept over him – but not who said it.

 

He asks Maester Luwin about it, asks for the truth— _I’m not a bastard, I’m not_ —so that is what he gets. He doesn’t stay long enough to hear the rest.

 

No, he’s not a bastard.

 

But oh, how he wishes he were.

 

*****

 

Robb finds him; he’s not alone.

 

Deep into the Godswood, Jon hides among the branches of one of the weirwood trees – dusk is fast approaching but there they are, at the foot of the tree. Somehow, he’s not surprised.

 

“Jon!” Sansa pouts at him, clutching Robb’s shoulders from where he carries her on his back. “Jon, come down!”

 

Her eyes plead with him, it’s enough to make him tear up a little—is he going to lose this _now_ , is he going to be sent away? Is that why the King came, to exile him? _Or kill me_ , he thinks, shaking his head as Sansa calls his name again, _he had my half-siblings killed, after all._

 

“Jon!”

 

The urge to comply is strong, but Jon resists, tries very hard at that, and glares at Robb instead. “Why’d you bring her here?” But he knows, he knows already – he might deny all kinds of orders to go back, but not Sansa’s pleas. “She’s not allowed out of the Keep without her Septa or Mother—” his breath hitches, he looks away, fists his hands on his lap; all the fight leaves him in a rush “—or Lady Catelyn.”

 

“Come down, Jon,” Robb is calm in his request, but he can hear the anger lurking underneath; mismatched eyes glinting in the dim light of the Godswood, the Tully blue color of his right eye contrasting with the rich brown of his left.

 

“I do not wish to be a bother to your Lady Mother.”

 

Maester Luwin had told him, reluctantly, how… _Lord Stark_ had claimed him as his bastard son. He can only imagine how that fact had hurt _Lady Catelyn_ , how much still hurts—does she know this, the truth about him? Jon can’t be certain, he’d not stayed long after hearing that bit.

 

Robb kicks the tree trunk then, startling him. “She’s your Mother as well!”

 

Sansa whimpers, looking up at him, scared and confused. “Jon…”

 

That does it. The _distress_. With a resigned sigh, he climbs off the tree; slower than he can, but he’s trying to avoid—Jon doesn’t even know anymore. As soon as his feet land on the ground, Sansa reaches for him; little chin shaking, she’s on the verge of _crying_. Jon doesn’t hesitate to gather her into his arms, making soft sounds and stroking her hair to soothe her.

 

Robb looks at him, the most serious he’s ever been – a step away from glaring. “Catelyn Stark is your Mother,” he says, low but with conviction, “Eddard Stark is your Father—”

 

“You heard what Maester Luwin said.”

 

“Aye, I _heard_ ,” he snaps, forcefully, startling him again and startling Sansa as well; that seems to bring some sense into Robb, the sobbing little girl burrowing in his arms. He sighs and grabs his unoccupied shoulder. “But I also heard what he said after you ran.”

 

Jon shifts his hold on Sansa, bracing her weight better in his arms; she tightens her grip on him, presses her face further into the side of his neck. Her sobs lessen but he can feel the dampness of her cheeks against his skin still – Jon hugs her closer to him.

 

“I’m not a bastard, but I’m not a Stark either.”

 

Aegon Targaryen—he _recoils_ from the very thought. Because right now, he really, _really_ wishes he were a bastard. A Stark bastard is much better than a Targaryen in his eyes, much preferable—he’d still have his family then, his brother and sister, Mother and Father and…

 

Robb is relentless. “You _are_ a Stark, you are the son of Father’s beloved sister. You’re no dragon, you’re a wolf. You’re of the North, like all of us.”

 

“Jon,” Sansa pulls back until she can look at him in the eyes; Jon focuses on her left eye, remembers the brief time when it bore the color of his own, before it changed. “Jon, you’re mine. Mine.”

 

She rubs her face against his tunic, wiping her tears away, before she going back to burrow into his shoulder. Sansa’s sucking her thumb – something she hasn’t done in over a year. Jon turns his confused gaze onto Robb, hoping for an explanation; he’s aware that his relationship with Sansa is different on some level, but has never quite managed to figure out the why.

 

He smiles a little, and shrugs. “Before coming to get you, I asked Maester Luwin about it – why your eyes are the same, why they changed when Sansa was born,” he tilts his chin. “She’d escaped her Septa, was listening behind the door; she asked me to let her come with me to find you.”

 

“What’d Maester Luwin say?”

 

Robb— _his brother_ , whispers a voice in the back of his head, _still his brother_ —grips his shoulder tightly. “Mother and Father love you, as much as they love me and Sansa and Arya. They didn’t _have_ to, but they _chose_ to love you as their own anyway. I love you as my brother, as does Arya. Never, _ever_ , doubt that.”

 

What about Sansa, he wants to ask; instead, he says, “what did Maester Luwin say?”

 

Jon knows Sansa loves him, as much as he loves her – knows it’s not as mere siblings on some level. The answer is suddenly there, just out of his reach and now—he needs to hear it; needs to have this at least.

 

“You and Sansa – you’re soulmates.”

 

And that—that explains much. Their lessons have only just begun to broach the subject, the general concept, but.

 

That—that explains _everything_.

 

*****

 

They return to the Great Keep after dusk; Mother is waiting for them – or she’s readying herself to come out and find them. Her handmaids, even Maester Luwin, try to stop her. And she does, once she catches sight of them; seems to sag in relief.

 

Robb takes off running, rushing to her side; they’d stayed away too _long_ , skipped a meal and their lessons and worried everyone. Robb grabs her hands, doesn’t let Mother step out into the cold; she fusses over him, checking him for injuries, hugging him and kissing his head.

 

Jon lags behind, still unsure of his place, despite Robb’s reassurance.

 

“Are we going to Mama, Jon?”

 

Sansa looks at him over his shoulder, eager and curious, all adorable innocence shining in her eyes. Her tears are long gone, dried in the time it took them to realize they needed to come back. Jon smiles at her—he always smiles when around Sansa, never mind the situation—and hoists her higher up on his back, securing his hold on her. It still amazes him, knowing the truth behind the bond he’s always felt with this little girl.

 

“Aye, we’re going.”

 

Slowly, because though it isn’t something he can just avoid, he’ll take his time getting there.

 

Mother is not upset, just worried; takes time to check them over as she did with Robb, though perhaps it takes her more time and it is a little harder what with Sansa perched on his back. But she refuses to let go when her Septa tries to take her away and, Jon won’t admit it, but he refuses to let go too.

 

Septa Mordane goes to scold them, but it’s interrupted – Mother leans closer, places a hand on his shoulder before dropping a kiss on Sansa’s forehead, which is received with much delight, then she straightens up and looks at him.

 

Jon looks down at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

 

The hand remains on his shoulder, squeezes gently. “Oh? Why are you sorry?”

 

 _Why_ , she asks? Perhaps for making Robb sneak out the Keep in search of him, for making Sansa disobey her and tag along with her big brother. For staying out so long, for running away, for _hiding_. For upsetting her, making her worry. For risking her health when she is with child.

 

_“Lord Stark told everyone you were his natural son—”_

 

For being the source of her grief? It suddenly seems to Jon, there’s a lot he needs to apologize for.

 

“For… _everything_.”

 

And then—

 

“Oh, my sweet boy…”

 

—Mother presses a kiss to his head, and he has to blink back the sudden onslaught of tears. Jon’s head snaps up, shocked, and finds the ever-loving smile he’s seen his whole life aimed at him. _Still_.

 

“I wanted to wait for your Father to come back – Jon, we were going to tell you,” there’s a pause; he feels Sansa squirming anxiously on his back, he shifts his hold to keep her from falling. “Perhaps we should move inside, it is getting cold.”

 

She gives out orders then, to prepare her chambers, to have the nursemaid bring Arya there; have supper delivered to her solar. Mother does all of this, shepherding them all down the hall and further into the Keep. She smiles at Robb when he insists on her taking his arm, let him escort her, as it’s only proper.

 

Jon turns to look at Sansa, grins when he finds her sucking her thumb again. “You’re not supposed to do that anymore, little one.”

 

“‘M not little,” she says, around her thumb, and kicks up her feet excitedly. “‘Ma Lady.”

 

Jon has to adjust his hold on her _again_ ; it is very difficult to carry her on his back while she’s bundled up as she is, but he manages. His grins widens, and he’s rewarded by her bright giggles.

 

“You’re not supposed to do that anymore, M’lady,” he says.

 

Sansa giggles again, burying her face in his shoulder. He turns back to find Mother’s loving smile directed at them, and while that pleases him, very much, he can’t shake off his unease.

 

Because he can’t quite ignore the worry lurking in her gaze.

 

*****

 

And later, as they huddle together in the Lady’s chambers, once the girls sleep peacefully in their Mother’s bed, and Robb is dozing off next to them – after he’s apologized again for something he really has no control over. After he’s spent the tears that had refused to come earlier— _after_.

 

The Lady of Winterfell speaks her truth.

 

“When I saw you in his arms, Jon,” she begins, sweeps her thumbs over his cheeks to wipe away the tears that clings to him still, “I knew I had only two choices – I could hate you and make both our lives difficult or I could love you.”

 

He sniffles, takes deep breaths to control his reactions.

 

“I could love you and I could try very hard to make the best of our situation. I will not deny the pain I suffered—it was hard, at first—but you were just a babe, innocent and blameless, I could _not_ – I could not find it in me to hate you.”

 

A pause.

 

“I could have tried, and perhaps, I could have succeeded in time, but I chose not to. Instead, I chose to care for you, to love you and raise you; for nearly six years, and not once, have I regretted my decision.”

 

“Not once?” Jon asks, suddenly feeling so very tired.

 

Mother kisses his forehead before pulling him into her arms. “Not once.”

 

Jon looks over to the bed, musters enough energy to smile a little; Robb has finally fallen asleep, sprawled over the foot of the bed, while the girls cuddle under the furs. Sansa is once again sucking her thumb, while Arya sleeps quietly as she rests close to her sister.

 

“King Robert is coming for me, is he not? Because I’m a Targaryen?”

 

“You are a Stark,” Mother sighs, allowing the worry to show only for a second. “I did not ask your Father to give you the name, and that was a mistake on my part. But know this, even if you bore the Targaryen look, you would still be a Stark—because we raised to be one, and that, my sweet boy, is what matters most.”

 

It is the only thing that truly matters.

 

He finally returns the embrace. “I just don’t want you and Father to get in trouble with the King.”

 

“That won’t happen, sweetling.”

 

“What if he declares war on us, on the North? Because of me?”

 

Mother hugs him tighter. “Then we got to war.”

 

“The North will not go to war for a Targaryen.”

 

“…no, but they will not go to war for a Targaryen,” gently, she tilts his chin until he’s looking at her. “They will go to war for a Stark.”

 

*****

 

Jon recalls – it had been some days after Sansa’s first name day, when he’d first heard his birth Mother’s name—back when he still did not know—in a voice that was not dripping with pain, but steely conviction.

 

He’d snuck down to the kitchens, looking for something to eat—a growing lad needs his food, he’d thought, he’d been hungry—and had been drawn to the low hum of voices  coming from the Great Hall.

 

_“You’ll have us go to war for a Targaryen!”_

 

_“No, my Lords. I am asking you to help me protect him if it ever comes to that.”_

 

The low murmur had escalated then; shouts soon reverberated through the place. Some voices, Jon had recognized, others not so much – whatever the case, they did not sound happy.

 

_“It will come to that! Robert Baratheon will march his armies on us when he hears of this!”_

 

_“You’d risk peace for Rhaegar Targaryen’s spawn—!”_

 

There’d been a crashing sound, as if someone had slammed their hands on the wooden table, and soon after silence fell over the Great Hall. Jon had barely even dared to breathe, fearing discovery. And then—

 

_“For my sister’s son. He is Lyanna’s boy, as much a Stark as any child of mine.”_

 

—Father’s voice had brokered no argument. Hard and commanding.

 

Maester Luwin had stumbled upon him then, had ushered him away with a reproachful glance, and Jon hadn’t been able to hear the rest.

 

The following days, Jon remembers them to be strange; the Northern Lords taking an interest in him that had surprised him, but ultimately had been dismissed as weird. Adult things that often were confusing to he and Robb.

 

Now, Jon is older—not by much, but enough and with enough _knowledge_ to understand. The suspicion and piercing looks and odd questions; they’d been _testing_ him. They test him still with every meeting that is held in Winterfell.

 

All for this moment, the day Robert Baratheon finally pays mind to the whispers. Jon hopes he’s been good enough so Father has the full might of the North at his back.

 

Because he truly doubts the King will be easy to stop.

 

*****

 

Robb is Lord of Winterfell while Father is away.

 

It’s not like he’s making actual decisions, that’s Mother’s duty with help from Ser Rodrik, but they have him go along with her to oversee the responsibilities of being Lord of Winterfell. To learn. His brother is still young, too much, but he had insisted on learning _now_ —never too soon to start he’d said, compelled Mother to allow him this, saying that she oughtn’t have to shoulder all the work, especially now that she tired more easily.

 

Usually, whenever Father would impart lessons to Robb about being a proper Lord, he would insist Jon be there too. Usually, whenever that had happened, Jon would go along gladly.

 

But in light of recent events, in light of his parentage reveal—so very fresh in his mind—he begs off. It’s clear they all guess at his reasons, but choose to say nothing about them; allow him his feeble excuse of helping with the girls when he’s not attending training and his lessons.

 

Not a complete lie, because he _is_ helping; Arya on a regular day is a handful, as her exhausted nursemaid is wont to admit at the end of the day, but as of late she’s been even more difficult to handle – her tantrums are becoming a thing to look out for. Sansa, who’s usually so gentle and sweet-mannered, such a perfect lady, has taken to shadow his steps and cling to his side, defying her Septa when she was told not wander off on her own.

 

No amount of scolding would dissuade her, which is shocking enough as it is.

 

Jon thinks it’s because she feels his anxiousness, at everything’s that’s happened—that _is_ happening. Maybe she can sense there’s something wrong, even if she doesn’t understand _why_ , and this is how she copes.

 

Maester Luwin had seemed to agree with him, and encouraged him to try to calm her. And Jon – he tries, he really does, but his reassurances fall on deaf ears because she knows he’s lying. Sansa _knows_ yet says nothing and simply continues to come to him at random times, clinging to his hand.

 

Though not so random, perhaps, he’s noticed she seems to be there whenever he’s feeling particularly overwhelmed; the onslaught of feelings about the truth of his parents tend to sneak up on him when he lest expects it.

 

He cannot, however, for the life of him, figure out why little Arya would be so anxious. It might be Father’s absence, or perhaps the lack of attention? It’s hard to say, at least for Jon; he knows Mother still pays her the most attention when she’s not busy going about her duties. He and Robb play plenty with her when they have time to spare – with her and Sansa, because they couldn’t just ignore Sansa.

 

_“Babes, even small ones, pick up on the distress of those around him, and react to it.”_

 

That’s Old Nan’s opinion on the matter, and for lack of a better explanation, Jon takes it. The past fortnight, ever since Father rode off to meet the King at Moat Cailin, has been hard on everyone. Harder on some—he worries so much for Mother and the babe she carries in her belly. Everyone’s too anxious awaiting word from Father, they can barely keep their grim expressions in private.

 

A wooden Knight hits his head then, and he knows before turning to look up that he should not have allowed himself to be distracted, as Arya is already working herself up into a tantrum. He chuckles, even as Sansa gasps horrified and hurries to his side.

 

“Arya!”

 

The reproach falls flat, as Sansa’s stern expression is really just a pout—an adorable pout at that. He laughs, and explosion that comes deep from his belly as his little lady fusses over him, threading her hands over his head to check for bumps.

 

A _surprise_ , this belly laugh; Jon can’t remember the last time he felt like laughing like this, not since Father left for Moat Cailin. It feels good, even better when he sees Arya grinning at him, and then extends his hand when the littlest Stark pushes herself onto her feet and comes to his other side, imitating her big sister. She’s less delicate in inspecting his head, but for her this is also a game, most likely.

 

The grin would not leave, now, his body shakes from time to time with suppressed laugher as he bends his head forward so the girls have better access to it. Arya starts giggling, pulling at his curls and watching them bounce back; while Sansa tries to remain stern as her fingers keep looking for a bump. Jon sees her biting her lips to stop herself from smiling, though.

 

“I’m alright, M'lady, there’s no bump,” he says, tapping her nose with his finger.

 

“Well, it appears so.”

 

Right then, his little sister decides to demand his attention, with a hit on the head and a joyful laugh.

 

“Arya!” Sansa places her hands on her waist, tries once again to go for a reproachful look, and once again ends up pouting. “Arya, that’s not nice. Apologize to Jon, now!”

 

Arya grabs a handful of his hair and pulls, hard enough to make him yelp but not to really hurt. “Jon!”

 

“Oh no! Don’t do that!”

 

He feels the laughter bubbling deep in his belly again, pushing to come out; Sansa tries to pry Arya’s fingers from him as carefully as she can, and he’s about to burst out laughing when the door to the nursery slams open.

 

Both girls gasp and cling to him, looking over their shoulders to the culprit. And it’s Robb – their brother, his brother, panting and red-faced and looking the most afraid he’s ever been. Jon knows he won’t like the words he’ll say.

 

“A raven’s arrived. Father’s on his way back to Winterfell,” he says, swallows and closes his hands into fists, “King Robert comes with him.”

 

Suddenly it feels like the floor rips open under his feet.

 

*****

 

Less than a sennight later, Father and the King arrive.

 

Perhaps by design, perhaps not, Mother falls onto the birthing bed earlier that same day. Earlier than _expected_.

 

The screams ring loudly through the hallway; they’re all in his and Robb’s chambers. These are farther away from Mother’s chambers than the nursery, but considering the silence that surrounds the castle, it’s impossible not to hear.

 

Robb spends his time pacing anxiously, or glaring at the closed doors and stomping his feet. If he’s doing neither, he’s trying to reassure the girls when they drift to his side on the verge of crying and asking for Mother.

 

Jon feels _useless_ , he can’t do more than offer comforting hugs to the girls, Sansa specifically – Arya is much too young to understand what they tell her, but _Sansa_. He cannot lie to her, so he cannot in good faith tell her everything will be alright. And right now she needs to be told that, even if it’s a lie.

 

“Mama!” Arya is back to his side, tugging at his hand and sniffing pitifully. “Mama!”

 

Jon feels his resolve to remain strong begin to crumble, pulls Arya into his arms, and looks at Robb in desperation.

 

His brother looks back, just as worried and afraid, and whisper, “…it wasn’t like this with them.”

 

He looks at Sansa, clutching at Robb’s waist a little tighter with every scream, and at Arya, pulling at his tunic as she kept calling for Mother.

 

They came easier to this world. He remembers little of the day Sansa was born, little else over the tingling of his left eyes and the swirling of colors, but both Mother and Father say she was the easiest one. Arya had taken some time, but there had been much less screaming.

 

“Aye… it wasn’t like this.”

 

Just then, the doors to their chambers open. For a moment he feels panic, can still hear Mother screaming down the hallway, thinks someone’s come to deliver bad news. But it’s Father the one who stands there, looking exhausted and worried but so very relieved to see them all there.

 

Sansa breaks free of Robb’s embrace and rushes at him, sobbing as she goes; Father smiles gently but leans down to receive her, scooping her up into his arms.

 

“Mama’s hurting,” she sobs, and immediately goes to suck her thumb. “Papa, why’s the babe hurtin’ Mama?”

 

Father walks further into the chambers, stops by Robb’s side to grasp his shoulder, bending to kiss his head. “Ser Rodrik told me what you’ve been doing. I’m proud of you, son.”

 

Jon doesn’t wait for his approach, suddenly shy, _unsure_ ; he pulls Arya up into his arms, secures her well enough, and walks closer to the man that’s been the only Father he’s ever known. The little one starts fussing in his arms once they’re close enough, reaching for Father’s arms; Sansa whines then, as Arya starts sobbing.

 

“It’ll be alright, sweetlings,” youngest daughter now secure in his arms as well, Father looks at him then, “we will talk, Jon – soon.”

 

He nods.

 

Robb shuffles closer, looks nervous but carries on. “Is the King… here?”

 

“Aye. I’ve sent him to rest for the night,” and suddenly, he looks exhausted; in a rare show of weakness, Father sits heavily on the ground, “we rode as fast as possible.”

 

He exchanges a helpless look with his brother, a shrug of shoulders, before they both sit near their Father. There is this fear in his chest now; Robb probably feels the same. Knowing what had happened to his— _birth mother_ , every scream echoing through the halls is what feels like a punch in the stomach.

 

His brother once more whispers his worries. “It wasn’t like this with the girls…”

 

Only a few minutes pass before the screaming stops, so suddenly and so absolutely, that they all freeze in worry. Jon tries to catch on other noises but there’s nothing; Father’s frown does not help find some comfort in the fact that maybe, _maybe_ this means Mother no longer suffers.

 

Very carefully, Father urges the girls to let go; a feat, because they refuse, but eventually relent with his and Robb’s help. “I need to check on your Mother. I’ll be back soon.”

 

He leaves, and then they’re left alone with their fear clawing at their throats.

 

*****

 

Jon wakes hours later, when dawn breaks and the sound of Winterfell awakening filters through the gaps under the wooden doors. Long after a night spent trying to calm his little sister and Sansa, coming up with plenty of stories alongside Robb to keep the girls from thinking of their Mother and the silence that blanketed the Keep. After they had to push their beds together so they could all sleep there, after the nursemaid had come to get the girls ready for bed and gone.

 

 _After_.

 

Carefully, he pries Sansa’s little hand open, releases the hold she has on him. And with just as much care, he slides off the joined beds, and stands there – watching.

 

Jon smiles.

 

Robb’s sprawled almost sideways on top of the furs, an arm hanging off the other side of the bed, mouth hanging open; it’s almost a habit for him now. Then there’s Arya, lying now on top of the pillows, arms and legs spread out, much like her brother, and one little foot placed firmly under Robb’s chin and pushing it from time to time.

 

He has to suppress the urge to laugh at such a sight.

 

Because then there’s Sansa, curled onto her side still, the hand that’d been holding him lies on the empty space he left behind – flexing, unconsciously reaching. Were this all, Jon’s sure everyone would comment on how even in her sleep she’s so very ladylike. Except – she’s sucking her thumb; Jon imagines she’ll have to break this habit _soon_ , before it becomes a necessity for her to cope.

 

_There’s time for that. She’s only three._

 

Oh, but her Septa would not like this sight.

 

With one last lingering look, Jon slips out of their chambers. He stands in the hallway for a long time, glancing anxiously towards Mother’s chambers, debating whether he should go see how she is—if he _could_. Father had not returned the night before; he and Robb had stayed awake for as long as they could, but no one had come get them. Not even after the babe had screamed once and then silence had once again reigned over their home.

 

After much debating with himself, Jon decides to go down to the kitchens, try to get the cooks to make something for him – or to take something for himself, if he’s not caught. He knows, whatever had happened in the end last night, Father would tell them.

 

_If it is something bad, I’d rather not know yet._

 

He ignores the giggles and laugher from the kitchens, thinking the cooks and kitchenmaids are simply sharing a jest he’d seldom understand. He’s focused enough in getting something to eat, perhaps persuade some kitchenmaid to bring food to his and Robb’s chambers so they can all break their fast together. He’s oblivious to all the surrounds him, so the startled yells shock him into stillness.

 

“My Lord!”

 

Jon doesn’t react – his eyes locked on the big man standing across the kitchens, on the far side of the table. On the matched blue eyes that widen in surprise before narrowing in anger.

 

He takes a step back—then another, and another. For a brief moment, he thinks he might be able to slip away quietly, go back to his chambers, and await Father there, possibly don’t come out until the day is over. For a mad moment, he thinks if he were to ask, he might be allowed to lock himself up somewhere for the duration of the King’s visit.

 

Just a moment.

 

“You…!”

 

He staggers back, nearly trips over his own two feet—the King advances on him, looming and so very _angry_. Jon turns to run— _craven_ , he thinks, _I’m a craven_ —but is stopped by a pair of big hands grabbing at his arms. Suddenly his feet leave the ground and he hits the stonewall rather painfully. _A child_ , he thinks again, _I’m only a child_. Jon blinks slowly at the King – in a state of detachment, thinks King Robert looks crazed.

 

Then:

 

_Is this how… the Mad King looked…? My… Grandfather?_

 

“ROBERT!”

 

His world shifts, tilts. Feels his rump hit the floor, watches through a blurry haze as Father— _it’s Uncle_ , a voice deep down whispers but he fights it back, _it’s Father, the only Father I’ve known_ —wrestle the King back, back, and _back_. Away from him, down the hall. They look so big, bigger than what he’s used to; Jon’s by no means _big_ , he’s tall, he’s been told that – tall. But still a boy of six, so small in comparison to _man_.

 

The shouts increase in volume; the King tries to lunge past Father and, _really_ , Jon should go back to his chambers. _But I can’t move, my legs won’t move_. His attention is pulled away by the gentle probing of fingers against his head – one of the kitchenmaid kneels in front of him, checking him over.

 

“You need to go back to your chambers, Lord Jon,” she says, casting worried glances at the retreating forms of the struggling men, then quickly back at him. “Oh…”

 

The young woman, whose name Jon can’t quite remember, stares at something in her hand. He tries to stand; the sudden movement makes his head throb painfully.

 

“Careful,” Ser Rodrik seems to appear out of nowhere, picking him up. “Let’s get you back to your chambers, Jon.”

 

“I can walk…”

 

But he’s not exactly sure of that; he _thinks_ he can, just not quick enough to make a retreat. Regardless, he’s not given a choice, and among the haze of pain, he’s carried off—he thinks, back to his chambers. Except he’s not exactly right, Jon’s quick to find out; the doors open to reveal the rest of his family gathered together.

 

“My Lady.”

 

There are words exchanged, but he’s not paying attention – Mother looks good. Mother looks _healthy_ , better than the day before; the bundle in her arms must be the new babe, a bit of red hair peeking from among the blankets covering… him, her? Is it a boy or a girl? _It matters little_ , he thinks, _Mother is alright, the babe is alright_.

 

His feet touch the ground then; he sways. Ser Rodrik still talks, Mother talks as well—but Jon hears nothing over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. As if from afar, he sees Sansa beaming at the babe from her place next to Mother, then at him, pointing and talking animatedly. Sees Robb approaching him with an equally bright smile that dims as he gets near; his brother grasps his shoulder.

 

“Jon,” his name comes as a whisper.

 

And there’s little Arya, grabbing his hands and babbling and pulling. Her mismatched eyes shining bright – Jon thinks, staring at her left eye, he’s seen that color before, can’t remember _where_.

 

Until.

 

He feels a something trickling down the back of his neck, then the floor rushes up at him.

 

_King Robert’s eyes._

 

*****

 

Father said he doesn’t have to.

 

But after fainting— _fainting_ —Jon thinks he must. He knows his fainting was due to the blow to his head, and what a thing to ignore, but admittedly he’d been much more focused on the King. Understandably so; Robert Baratheon is as imposing a man as Father’s always said he was.

 

Robb had jested, nudging him as he sent him mischievous smiles over his fainting; would’ve make him self-conscious were it not for the worry lurking in his eyes. So Jon decides, he won’t let that be known as his reaction to his first meeting with the King. The first he remembers anyway.

 

 _I’m no craven_ , he thinks, knocking firmly on the door to Father’s solar, _I’m a… I’m a Stark, I can be brave_.

 

“Enter.”

 

Jon shallows nervously, and pushes the door open; he bows slightly. “Your Grace, Father.”

 

The King huffs, gives him a piercing stare. “How’s your head, boy?”

 

“It’s good, Your Grace.”

 

"His Grace wishes to speak with you, Jon," Father says.

 

He nods at him, looks at the King expectantly. There's none of the anger he'd seen the day before in his eyes, none of the crazed look he’d wore – he looks tired, Jon realizes, as tired as Father, misery clinging to his tense and broad shoulders like nothing he's seen before.

 

"Go bundle up, boy. We'll be going into the crypts."

 

He does as he's told.

 

Father stands next to King Robert at the Keep's entrance. He grabs his shoulder once Jon's crossed the distance between them, bends to pull his cloak tighter around him, the drops a kiss on his head. He thinks he might cry, feels the pressure behind his eyes.

 

"It will be alright, son."

 

"Yes, Father."

 

Then he's hurrying off after the King.

 

*****

 

“Do not misunderstand, Ned. I am not sparing his life in _spite_ of anything. It’s because, _only_ because.”

 

“Because?”

 

“Because he’s _yours_ , and Catelyn’s. Because the boy… is _Lyanna’s_. Because I look at him and I see the last piece left of my soulmate. Never forget that, Ned.”

 

“I do not forget.”

 

_I will not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's POV will be coming next, I promise.


End file.
